A New Kind of Saint
by BartenderFromHell
Summary: My first fic. Smecker's date ends up being more of a nuisance than usual, even without the cuddling. ConnorOC fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notation: **Hi. Um, I'm kind of new here. Uh, this is just the first part of a longer story, and I kind of wanted to know what people think. Please let me know.

**Disclaimer:** I wish I'd written the script for the Boondock Saints. Other than that, the new characters are mine and the really sad dialogue is mine as well.

* * *

**A New Kind of Saint**

**Chapter One: The Next Morning  
**

* * *

"Murph, a word?"

Murphy McManus glanced up from his rugged leather boots. His twin brother, Connor, was standing in the doorway to their shared bedroom, rubbing a hand in his hair absent-mindedly. Murphy exhaled a cloud of smoke that momentarily covered the cross on his right arm as it wafted slowly towards his brother.

"Stop fecking with it, Con," he said, getting to his feet as he searched for his shirt. Connor glared lightly at his brother. "You cut it too short, Murph. I look like I'm going to join the fecking army," he said, scrubbing at his spiking hair in an attempt to make it grow faster.

"Not in this century," Murphy said, flicking his cigarette out the window into the dark early morning Boston air and grabbing a tee shirt. "What was it you were wanting, by the way?" he asked, pulling the shirt over his head. Connor stood straighter, recalling his purpose.

"You're not going to believe this, Murph."

Murphy looked up. "Well, what is it?"

"Come and see for yourself."

* * *

Agent Paul Smecker was humiliated.

He eyed the shoulder holster housing his Browning 9mm, hanging innocently enough off the back of his chair. He was overcome with an almost feverish desire to rush over, place the gun in his mouth, and pull the-

"Smecker?"

Smecker shook his head lightly, eyeing the gun warily and stood. "Yes?"

Instead of answering, the door to his luxurious apartment swung open. He knew who it was before they entered; he'd given the Saints the only other key to his apartment, considering his somewhat non-involved love-life and their constant state of danger and occasional need for a hideout.

Connor entered first, bounding like a puppy and bearing that god-awful grin, followed closely by Murphy, whose countenance was a bit less enthused and more confused as he closed the door behind him.

"Connor, Murphy," Paul acknowledged, stumbling a bit as he bowed his head in greeting. Connor snickered. "Still shlossed, are we?" he asked, waving a hand in front of Smecker's face and watching him go cross-eyed as he tried to focus on it. "Explains so much," Connor said conspiratorially to his brother, who still looked lost. "No, not really, it doesn't, Murph. What the fuck are we doing here at…" he glanced at his watch. "…nearly six in the fecking morning?!?"

Connor turned to Smecker, who'd collapsed on his chair yet again. "Shall you tell 'im, or should I?" he asked. Smecker's only response was to bury his face in his hands, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'can't believe I'm supposed to be a fucking FBI agent…'.

Connor smirked. "Our Paul went on a bit of a date last night, didn't you, Paul?"

Smecker groaned, partially under the influence of the Mai Tais from that night, and partially under the weight of his own shame.

Connor continued, seeing Murphy unamused and still curious. "Seems Paul's…date…was more interested in us than him," he said, grinning cheekily. Smecker was beginning to have other thoughts involving his gun…and Connor.

"Connor, just shut up and show him, and then get the hell out of my apartment," Smecker growled, slumping lower into his seat. Connor rocked back on his heels, hands shoved deep inside his black coat. "Well, shall we?" he asked his brother. Murphy shrugged. "Why not?"

Connor led his brother past the semi-conscious form of Smecker and back into his bedroom. He paused at the door as a loud thump followed by a muffled "_shit!"_ resounded from within. He grasped the handle carefully and pulled. It was dark inside. The lights had been on when Connor had left to get Murphy.

Hand going inside his coat, Connor turned his head slightly to Murphy. "Something's not-", but that was as far as he got, because at that moment he was tackled to the ground by a dark figure.

Murphy, showing an unusual show of sensibility, felt the wall beside him and flicked on the lights. The sight which met him confused him for about twenty seconds before he let out an amused chuckle.


	2. Transvestite

**Author's Notation: **Well, chapter two here. Just to clarify, this is not a Smecker fic. Unless that's a problem; then maybe I can add more Smecker. I do love him. Let me know what you think.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Boondock Saints, though I wish I did.

* * *

**A New Kind of Saint**

**Chapter Two: Transvestites and Gender Benders**

* * *

Five minutes and a few scuffles and tussles later and Connor was standing by Smecker's bed, gun trained securely on the figure sitting at the foot of it. Said figure, with brown, slightly longer than average hair for a man, clad in a turtleneck sweater and loose, casual jeans, was glaring impressively between the two brothers. Murphy was still snorting with laughter every two seconds.

"So, this is Smecker's date, eh?" he asked, glancing over the disgruntled man. Or rather, male imposter, as it had turned out. The figure on the bed, though dressed convincingly like a man, was noticeably female, right down to the hellcat temper rising in the heat in her cheeks.

"So, these are the supposed Saints of Boston, eh?" the woman growled out, mimicking Murphy's accent. The brothers shared a moment's tense glance, both their grips tightening on their guns. Her hands were still handcuffed behind her back, where Smecker had placed them at his initial discovery of her true gender. Smecker's humiliated drunkenness now made sense, as only a truly smashed man could have mistaken her for a man.

Conner nudged her cheek with his gun. "Easy, darlin'. Just makin' conversation." The cold steel of his Beretta must have touched a nerve with her, because her already pale face drained of all color, and her mouth closed with a soft intake of breath that only Connor could really hear.

Noting her unease relaxed Murphy, who put the safety back on his own gun. "Now then, who are you, and what's a nice girl like you want with lads like us?" he asked.

"And how'd you know Smecker knows about us?" Connor added, pulling his gun away from her cheek. Ever since they'd met Da, they'd adhered to his standards; no women, no children, no innocents. He only had his gun trained on her in case she tried to pull something. Like rugby-tackling him. Again.

The woman, with her glaring blue eyes and cropped brown hair, tilted her chin up in a manner that was all feminine pride. "I wanted to know about these Saints that kill, and my intuition led me to Mr. Smecker," she said, her voice soft, but firm; afraid, but determined.

Before either Connor or Murphy could comment, Smecker's disgruntled voice penetrated their conversation from beyond the bedroom door.

"You got lucky, kid," he grumbled. "Nothing more."

Connor and Murphy turned their eyes to the "kid", whose feathers had bristled at his remark, the color rising back in her cheeks.

"Quite a temper this one has, eh Con?" Murphy grinned, meeting his brother's stare. This served only to infuriate the cross-dressing woman further.

Conner turned back to their prisoner. "So you fetched into this get-up to get closer to Smecker. Still doesn't tell us who you are," he mused. "Or what business you've got with us," Murphy added.

The woman seemed to be avoiding answering Connor's question, because she turned her gaze to Murphy. "I was interested in you. I wanted to know why you do what you do."

Murphy frowned. "Weak reason for getting into this much trouble," he commented.

She frowned. "Had I known how much trouble you two would be, believe me, I would have stayed at home with the cat. As for my reason, I happen to be a journalist. What else was I supposed to do when I saw the two of you, matching the artist's sketches on your Wanted posters, meeting the FBI agent who'd once been assigned your case? I did a bit of research and came up with an idea."

"Wasn't a very good one," Connor pointed out. "And so far you've cleverly avoided telling us your name. We don't bite. Well," he amended, "I don't."

Murphy smirked. "I might. I've got a temper as well."

The woman paled a bit, struggling futilely against her handcuffs. "Well, that's lovely. Mind telling me why I'm still cuffed?" she asked, sticking her arms out behind her.

"Well, we can't let you go tell all those nice reporters and police officers who we are, now can we?" Murphy asked. "Seems like we'll just have to shoot you," Connor said calmly. Murphy would have laughed, but the woman's shoulders shook ever so perceptibly at the reference to the gun, and her muscles seemed to coil inward.

"Let her be, Con," he said, walking forward and pushing his brother's gun arm down. Turning to her, he grinned somewhat apologetically. "We won't shoot you, but I'm afraid we can't let you go, either. Seeing as you know who we are and all."

The woman sat up a little strainer, leaning eagerly toward them. "I won't tell a soul, I swear," she said earnestly. Connor snorted. "See, though, that's the thing with you American journalists; you're so eager to get your story out, and so ruthlessly willing to swear, lie, cheat, and steal in the name of a story."

"And what a story it is, too, Con," Murphy added. His brother nodded. The woman searched her mind frantically. "I don't know your last names," she said, clutching at straws.

"It's McManus," Connor said, finally dropping his gun in favor of extending his hand. "I'm Connor, and that's me brother Murphy," he said, shaking the chain linking the cuffs behind the woman's back.

"Nice going, there," Murphy commented, before turning to the stunned and slightly hysterical woman. "Well, you know who we are; it's only fair that you return the favor."

She stared at them for a moment, her face a mixture of apprehension, horror, and fear, before slumping her shoulders. "Cathleen Palmer," she sighed, collapsing backward, only to remember too late that her arms were bound behind her. "Ouch," she commented as her wrist broke and blackness swallowed her.

* * *

The first thing Cathleen realized when she woke up was that her entire arm was yelling at her in several different languages, all screaming pain. The second thing was that her hair was abnormally short, and the third was that there were two heavily Irish voices arguing somewhere in the distance.

"-illiant, Con; that's just great. And what are we supposed to do with her?"

"She can fend for herself for a bit. Earn her keep and all that."

"Da's not going to like this. This isn't punishing the wicked, this is kidnapping. Of an innocent, no less."

"That's her problem."

"Well, it's not entirely her fault, now is it? "It's McManus." Honestly."

"What the fuck were we supposed to do? She put herself in danger and we've got to watch our own backs, haven't we?"

"We can't watch hers too, now, can we?"

"Listen, we keep her here until Da gets home. He'll know what to do."

"Fine. But you're cooking for her."

Cathleen had somehow made it up to her feet off the low mattress she had been laid out on. Her arm swung against her chest in a makeshift sling as she made her way towards the only door in a bare white room.

"I can make my own food," she said absent-mindedly as she walked in on the two men who'd taken her hostage standing in the middle of a tattered living room. They both turned to look at her in surprise.

"Someone's in a better mood," Murphy whispered. Connor, uncharacteristically, said nothing. Cathleen felt awkward as his blue eyes slowly perused her body. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, noticing for the first time that the men's clothes she'd been wearing for her meeting with Smecker had been changed into a different set of men's clothes that smelled faintly of cigarettes, man, and laundry detergent. The bandages that had been wrapped around her chest to conceal her gender were gone.

Her head darted up, her new short locks brushing over her eyes, causing them to sting and flutter a few times. "Who undressed me?" she asked, taking a small step back, mentally checking her body for any abuse or soreness. Other than the searing pain in her wrist, she felt relatively unharmed.

"Smecker," the McManus brothers said simultaneously.

"Sure," she said, dropping her fears again as her stomach growled. "Listen, I'm still scared out of my wits, and make no mistake, this will not be a permanent arrangement, and I am far from finished talking with you two, but I'm starving. Can we dispense with the hostilities and kidnapper-kidnapped relationship for breakfast? Then you can tie me back up and point guns at me all you like. Though obviously, I'd hope you wouldn't."

Connor and Murphy stared at her at a bit of a loss.

"Christ, Connor, she's worse than you," Murphy remarked as he led the way to the kitchen.

Connor followed after him, sparing Cathleen one last glance.

Cathleen, a slave to her stomach, was about to follow them, purely out of instinct and habit, when she realized that now there was nothing stopping her from rushing out the front door and getting the hell away from these crazy Irish fuckers and their guns.

Her mind was made in a matter of seconds. Slipping across the room on her toes, she gingerly turned the knob, unbolted the door as silently as possible, and cracked it open. A light icy breeze swept past her ear as a clang came from the kitchen. Cathleen paused, terror streaking down her spine until she heard Connor and Murphy engage in some kind of war with kitchen utensils. Letting out a breath, she swung the door open and darted out in one fluid motion.

Elation didn't even have time to sink in. Not a step outside the door and Cathleen found herself facing black wool and in a tight embrace of burly, warm arms. She let out a muffled scream as she tried to bring her arms up.

"Ow, fuck," she hissed, giving in to the arms that scooped from behind her to wrap around her waist as she cradled her throbbing wrist to her chest. She was pulled inside, bouncing against the chest of whoever had plucked her out of midair, and hauled into the kitchen, where Connor paused, wielding an egg beater over Murphy's head.

"Well," the deep voice belonging to Cathleen's current captor rumbled as he let her down gently, "while you two were fucking around with your spatulas, I picked up this lovely young lass." Cathleen sunk moodily into one of the collapsible chairs around the plastic card table.

Connor and Murphy stood, looking a bit sheepish. "Aye, Da," Murphy said, giving Connor a meaningful look. "We were meaning to talk to you about her."

The man behind Cathleen took a few steps forward. Curiosity compelled her to look, and her eyes met another pair; grey-green and sparkling with mirth under the heavy weariness of age. The rest of him gave only a vague impression of bushy grey hair and a robust frame. To her immense surprise, his smile was a pleasant one when it came.

"And who might you be?" he asked, his voice naturally gruff, but friendly. Cathleen found herself likening him to her favorite uncle.

"Cathleen Palmer, sir," she said, and heard immediate protests from one of the twins, probably the one called Connor. "Brilliant. Sure, she tackles me, but she's best friends with Da," he grumbled. The man called 'Da' turned his attention away from Cathleen to furrow his brow at the twins. "Maybe if you'd learned some manners from yer Ma, Miss Palmer here might have been a bit more open with the two of ye's," he growled.

"Now then," he returned his attention to Cathleen, "just what sort of mess did you get into to warrant being stuck here with my boys?"


End file.
